


Live and Be Free

by Pen_n_Notebook (WhiteDoveSails)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, F/M, Hughes is a good person, Riza Hawkeye has automail, Riza becomes a civilian, Riza leaves the military, Violet Evergarden Fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-11
Updated: 2020-06-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24664300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhiteDoveSails/pseuds/Pen_n_Notebook
Summary: Major Mustang’s last order echoes in her mind. “Live and be free.”It haunts Riza that she can both know the word's meaning and not understand it.
Relationships: Riza Hawkeye & Roy Mustang, Riza Hawkeye/Roy Mustang
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	Live and Be Free

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Royai Week! This wasn't written with the prompts in mind, but it happens to fulfill the prompt: letters. 
> 
> This is a fusion with Violet Evergarden, an emotional anime where a young female soldier learns to cope with life after the war even though the most important person in her life has not returned from the war. It's not necessary to be familiar with Violet Evergarden to understand this story. A few lines of dialog are borrowed from VE. Thanks to madetine for pointing the show out to me.
> 
> While watching Violet it was hard NOT to imagine Riza, Roy, Hughes, and the rest of the FMA cast in these roles. Can you imagine the various letters FMA characters would ask Riza to write? The possibilities are endless!

The war is over. 

Logically, Riza Hawkeye understands this. Aerugo fought bravely, strategically holding their ground in trench warfare for three of the war’s four long years. In the end, their soldiers couldn’t match the raw firepower and size of the Amestrian Army. 

Negotiations of surrender took place between government officials. Reparations paid in full. Land claimed. Soldiers laid down their weapons.

The war is over. 

Emotionally, Riza Hawkeye does not understand this. 

The war is over. 

So … what now? 

Riza Hawkeye is a good soldier, a soldier who always follows orders, points her gun at the men she’s told to shoot, and whose reports are concise and accurate. A useful soldier. Undeniably the best sniper in the war based on her target accuracy and her kill count. More importantly she protected Major Mustang until the end. 

And as she sits on the hospital bed, white linens wrinkling around her waist, she stares at the new heavy metal hands that can no longer fire a rifle. A seed of fear lodges itself in her chest. Riza Hawkeye has always been a soldier; she doesn’t know how to be anything else. 

Her new automail arms are heavy, clunky limbs that make her feel like an uncoordinated child. Some days she wants nothing more than to rip them off. Instead, she grits her teeth and slowly works through the exercises given to her by the nurses. With the same intensity she used to run across trench lines, she now opens and closes the thick metal fingers, picks up marbles, holds a fork, and buttons her own hospital gown. 

All of her hard work since the automail surgery paid off. Progress becomes more clear week by week. Though it still feels awkward, the tasks are getting easier. She feeds herself without spilling much, keeps her dignity while bathing, and holds any small object the nurses place in front of her. 

But the shiny new metal catches her by surprise every time it reflects the sun. 

Part of her is glad that the Major hasn’t seen her new limbs. 

Part of her worries why he hasn’t contacted her yet. 

Is she no longer useful to him?

She looks up as the nurse, Florence, draws the curtain around her bed aside to greet Riza with the familiar basket of therapy items and a warm smile. Each of her steps is as graceful as a dancer’s as she approaches. She oversees Riza’s recovery, not with experienced hands, but the hands of a student eager to learn. Clearly she has never seen war herself; her eyes are far too bright, her smile too naive. 

“How are you feeling today, Miss Hawkeye?” 

Riza concentrates on flexing the metal fingers of her left hand in front of her face. Her brow creases with the effort. Despite the connection to her nerves, the action still feels unnatural. 

“I’m recovering,” Riza answers simply. She has more pressing concerns. “Are there new orders for me, from the army? Or Major Mustang?”

Nurse Florence shakes her head, the same response since Riza first asked after waking from automail surgery. 

“You only need to focus on getting better right now.” Gently, she rolls the left sleeve of Riza’s hospital gown to examine where the metal arm meets the stump below her shoulder. The nurse hums in approval at the skin regrowth around the port. “The skin is healing just fine,” she reassures. “How do your arms feel today, do they hurt?”

The nurse walks around the bed and checks the right side, nodding as well. 

Riza watches curiously. Other than infection, she has no idea what the woman is looking for. Her knowledge of medical care is limited to basic and immediate battlefield dressings. “I can handle the pain. It’s no more than yesterday.”

“They will just take some getting used to, is all,” Nurse Florence says sympathetically, unrolling her sleeve. The kindness of the gesture is lost on Riza. “Time heals all wounds.”

Riza is about to respond that the human body heals itself, but the woman reaches into the basket on the floor and pulls out the therapy objects of the day: several sheets of loose paper and a large fountain pen. 

“Do you know how to write, Miss Hawkeye?” 

“Yes, the Major taught me,” Riza says, taking the pen into her new hands. She can’t feel its wooden handle nor the metal tip. 

“Wonderful!” The nurse proclaims. “Your goal today, Miss Hawkeye, is to write a letter. The practice will help improve your fine motor skills.” 

“I can do that.” Riza agrees. She would rather not, but it has been such a long time since she reported to Major Mustang. He needs to know her progress.

“Write as much as you like, there’s plenty of paper if you need more. I can even mail it for you, if you’d like.”

Nurse Florence smiles sweetly one last time as she picks up her basket to leave. The privacy curtain closes behind her leaving Riza to stare at the intimidatingly blank paper laying on the table across her bed. 

“Yes, I’d like that.” Riza whispered to herself. “Very much. But I don’t know where he is now.” 

***

Her automail arms clank against the wooden table across her lap. 

She adjusts the fountain pen between her fingers carefully. The metal joints of her knuckles grind together. Never before had such a simple tool looked so daunting. Firing her rifle would still probably be easier. 

But never one to disobey orders, Riza holds the pen in her right hand lightly, still learning the pressure used in which to hold items. It’s been four days since she last broke anything. She taps the pen against her lips to feel the wooden grip as she thinks about the events to report to Major Mustang. 

She began with shaky strokes, the letters on the paper are larger than she would have preferred, but each is legible under her slow, steady concentration. 

_Major Mustang,_

_I have been in the hospital for 380 days now after receiving automail arms. My strength has almost recovered. The movement is still a little difficult, but I can perform my duties. Please let me return to my post soon…_

By the time Riza finishes the full report, the sun has shifted in the late afternoon sky. Clouds appear as thin wisps through the hospital windows. But the paper in front of her is flawless of grammatical errors and irrelevant information, folded and ready for the eyes of the Major. 

Footsteps, two sets –– the nurse's light dancers pace and a heavier shoe –– approach her curtain. 

“Miss Hawkeye, there is someone here to see you.” Nurse Florence announces before drawing the curtain back. 

Her heart rises in excitement, but the man standing there is not Major Mustang. He’s too tall with a square, unshaven jaw. But he is not unfamiliar to Riza Hawkeye. The informal purple buttoned up shirt with rolled sleeves is a far cry from the military uniform she last saw him wearing. Sunlight catches on the man’s glasses as he smiles upon seeing her. 

“The Major –– where ‘s Major Mustang?” she demands. If anyone knew, it was Maes Hughes, the Major’s best friend from the military academy.

“He’s, uh, not here.” His smile dampens, but does not disappear. 

Riza is not deterred. “Where is he? Did he return home already? How are his injuries? I know they were severe. Tell me, is Major Mustang actually alive?”

Hughes rubs the back of his neck, not sure how to phrase this conversation. “Well, he’s ––”

“You’ve been discharged from the hospital,” Nurse Florence interrupts happily, helping Riza out of bed though she doesn’t need the assistance to stand. “Lieutenant Hughes came all this way from Central to pick you up, you know.” 

Hughes looks over to the nurse, relieved. “That’s right.” 

“Excuse me.” Riza shrugs out of the nurse’s hands, back snapping ramrod straight to salute. “I forgot that you were a lieutenant. I apologize, sir. ”

He dismisses her with a wave rather than return the salute. “Riza, relax. The war is over, no need to be formal.” 

Lieutenant Hughes’ easy smile is lost on Riza. Slowly, she lowers her hand, confused by the lack of military procedure. Has she done something wrong? Has she been discharged due to her injuries? 

Riza imagined speaking to a representative from the military after her new limbs healed, but this is nothing like she expected. The informality alone…. Where are her orders, the information about her next mission?

Lieutenant Hughes continues, “I was wondering if you actually remembered me.”

“Yes,” Riza answers stiffly, unsure about the direction the conversation is heading. Never before has anyone else from the military made small talk with her. “We met twice before, during the training and the night before the final battle.” That night will forever be burned into her memory. It was her last night at the Major’s side. 

“It was only twice, wasn’t it? Good memory.”

Nurse Florence begins to pack Riza’s scant belongings into a small case on the bed, a single blouse and skirt, a wooden hairbrush. She has never owned much, and these items, like all she has owned, were given to her in generosity.

Riza watches attentively as her letter to the Major is folded carefully and placed into an envelope atop the clothing. 

Observant, Lieutenant Hughes notices too. “A letter?” He’s an intelligent man, Riza knows. Major Mustang spoke about him often recounting their friendship at the Academy. From his stories, she knows that Lieutenant Hughes is a dependable man. Also far too curious for his own good, Major Mustang lamented while pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration on several occasions. 

Her eyes only move back to him once the bag is closed, her report safely tucked inside. “I was writing a report to Major Mustang. They said that writing words down would help to improve my condition a great deal.” But Riza will not be distracted so easily. “How is the Major?” 

“Don’t worry Riza. He’s the one who asked me to come here for you.”

A warmth settles against her heart hearing the words. The Major still cares, even if he can’t be here with her right now. He sent the man he trusts most to collect her. 

“So then, that means that he’s fine.” Riza summarizes. “The doctor told me that we won the war, Lieutenant Hughes. What post is he assigned to now? When will I be able to join him?”

“First, get changed. We have plenty of time to discuss it on the way back to Central.” 

***

“It feels very tight.” Riza remarks, standing under Nurse Florence’s appraising eyes. The white blouse limits the full movement in her shoulders. She raises her arms as far as possible. The green skirt hugs her waist far tighter than the hospital’s loose gowns. 

Ever stoic, Riza doesn’t complain, but she doesn’t like the clothing either. 

The tightness reminds her of a time before Major Mustang, living in a decaying house. She wore dresses that cut into her skin and stole her breath rather than wear nothing at all. When that no longer worked, she stole shirts from her dying father. The young Major (Mr. Mustang back then) finally gave her his clothing to wear instead. 

The nurse looks unconcerned. “That’s how it’s supposed to fit, Miss Hawkeye. I suppose it’s been a while since you wore a proper skirt, fighting in the war for so long.”

Riza misses the baggy fit of the Major’s clothes and her military uniform. On cold nights along the front she burrowed in the fabrics, wrapping them around herself like a blanket.

Now rolls of crisp linen bandages circle her metal arms and fingers. A precaution for traveling, she’s warned. They protect the healing skin around her ports from rubbing against the tight sleeves. Florence also informed Riza that new automail recipients often scratch the limbs while learning to use them. After a week or two she can remove the covering. Though many chose to cover the automail to avoid unwanted attention, she’s also told.

“You’re ready to travel now,” the nurse continues. “Remember to keep up with your automail maintenance. And don’t push yourself too hard, recovering your full strength will still take time. Goodbye Miss Hawkeye. We’ll miss you.” 

To her surprise, Nurse Florence pulls her into a close embrace. Riza could push the woman off of her immediately, could kill her in seconds. But the nurse means no harm. This is the gesture of parting she’s seen the nursing staff and other patients use. 

Major Mustang held her like this before. 

Riza goes still, letting the nurse babble in her ear. 

By the time Riza walks out of the hospital into the warm spring air, Lieutenant Hughes is standing beside a car. He opens the door for her and takes the small bag of her belongings to put in the back of the vehicle. He doesn’t comment about her appearance. 

Riza is about to step inside the car when Nurse Florence rushes from the building calling to her. “Miss Hawkeye! Miss Hawkeye, wait! This finally arrived for you. Here are your belongings. It looks like it was first delivered to an army base in the east by accident. Good thing I caught you before you left.”

Cheeks pink with exertion, she hands over the small box. It’s quite light. Riza opens it to find a book of matches inside, several colorful pebbles she collected rattling inside a drinking tin, but nothing more. 

It’s been stripped of everything valuable inside. The money given to her by the Major is gone, as is the photo of him in his uniform, but worst of all…

“The brooch, where is the brooch?” Riza demands, panic rising. 

Everything is wrong, it has been since she woke up after the battle, after the war, alone, in pain, and missing half her limbs. And now, the last part of her identity is missing. The one thing she owned for herself, not because it was practical or useful for fighting, but because it was beautiful. The same lovely shade of orange that dances in the light just like Major Mustang’s flames. 

The nurse looks at her with confusion. “Huh? This is everything there was from the garrison, the place where they found you.” 

“If it’s not here I have to look for it!” Riza turns away from the car quickly already trying to determine how to get back to the campsite outside the battlefield, miles away. It must be there ...

And a large hand on her shoulder interrupts her thoughts. 

“Riza --” Lieutenant Hughes begins, trying to calm her. 

“No!” she cries because neither of them understood how important the jewelry was. “Someone gave it to me. The Major gave it to me!”

Lieutenant Hughes places both hands on her small shoulders and turns her to face him until she’s forced to meet his eyes. His expression is nothing but genuine, caring, considerate and so unfamiliar that Riza stops. “I understand. I’ll be sure to look for it. Don’t worry.”

“Yes but --” How will he know where to find it if he doesn’t know what it looks like? 

“Come along with me now,” Lieutenant Hughes directs Riza back to the passenger seat of the awaiting vehicle. “Those are his direct orders”. 

The precious words Riza has been waiting for all this time from the Major. She repeats it in disbelief. “Orders?”

She follows without question. 

***

They ride in silence. Dirt roads lead them through fields of fruit orchards outside of South City, but Riza ignores the scenic view to focus on the present, the here and now as she awaits instructions carrying Major Mustang’s orders. 

Lieutenant Hughes drives while she sits beside him in the passenger seat. No orders have come yet. Instead Hughes makes amicable conversation about life in Central since the end of the war, mostly about his wife. Riza shuffles the soft objects beside her shoes over to make more space for her feet. She listens, growing mildly frustrated, though she would never show it to a superior officer. 

“... Gracia has family in Central, so we decided to stay. She’s a city woman through and through. As much as I’d enjoy the peace of the county, she doesn’t deserve to get her hands dirty out there. Not after she waited so patiently for me to come home. If the business takes off we’re likely to stay longer, of course --”

“I understand,” Riza interrupts. She does not understand the Lieutenant’s devotion to this woman, but he finally stops talking about her. “Lieutenant, when am I going to receive my next orders from the Major? It’s just that in my current condition, the duties I’m capable of performing are limited.”

He dodges her question with skill. “I’m not a lieutenant anymore, I left the army. You did too I’ve been told.” 

“Sir?” White static as loud of mortar fire echoes in her ears. No. She’s been … she’s … this can’t be happening.

Without the military, without the Major Riza is nothing. 

Hughes quirks an eyebrow in confusion. “You haven’t received your discharge papers yet?”

Riza shakes her head, unable to form words. What had she done wrong? No wonder the Major hasn’t contacted her yet. 

Major Mustang’s last order echoes in her mind. “ _Live and be free.”_

It haunts her that she can both know the words meaning and not understand it. 

None of the Major’s statements made sense at the end of the battle. He could have been suffering from shock or blood loss -- his injuries were severe -- but Riza remembers the way he held her gaze. His voice was desperate, but steady. 

“Of course they haven’t.” Hughes shakes his head, bitter tone bringing Riza back to the present. “The military is useless for anything other than fighting wars. Incompetent bureaucracy. My discharge papers were filed two months late and the military police nearly came banging down my door for desertion.”

“That’s why Major Mustang hasn’t given me orders,” Riza whispers. “I’m not useful to him anymore.”

“What?” Hughes asks in confusion. “No. You’ve been medically discharged due to your injuries during the battle. It’s what Mustang wanted. He requested your leave so you can focus on recovering. I’m sure your papers were sent to the east, just like your belongings.”

“The Major hasn’t forgotten me?” She asks quietly looking down at the cloth covered metal hands folded in her lap.

“Never, Riza.”

Riza pauses satisfied for now. Major Mustang still cares, and that’s enough. “Then what should I call you?”

“Hughes is fine. You’re a friend of a friend, no need to be formal.”

The Major was more than a friend to Riza. He was … everything, her commander, her savoir. And she was his weapon, a tool on the battlefield. She opens her mouth to correct Hughes, but he’s already moved on.

“Riza, I brought you a gift. It’s in the footwell down there if you can reach it — yes.” 

She pulls out the three stuffed animals pushed aside earlier. Children’s toys: a rabbit, a dog, and a cat. 

Hughes shrugs, the light shade of embarrassment creeping over his cheeks going unnoticed by Riza. “I didn’t really know what you’d like so I brought three. What do you think?”

“I don’t need them,” she says honestly. 

Hughes sighs. “No. It’s a gift. You have to choose one of them. Which one? Pretend the world is about to end, okay? Three, two --

She’s always been good at making rapid decisions. “The dog.” 

“Why that one?” He asks, curious as they leave the orchards behind. The fertile land gives way to barren plains surrounding the smaller villages. The scenery is ugly now. 

“Because the Major once told me that dogs are the most loyal creatures. They follow their master’s commands, they don’t complain, and they never beg for a paycheck.”

“Of course he said that. He’s kind of an idiot at times, you know.” 

Riza does not know. “The Major is a very intelligent man,” she says in his defence. He excelles at research, information recall, and formulating battle strategies.”

“That’s all true. Doesn’t make Mustang less of an idiot though.”

“Why a child’s toy?” She asks before touching the stuffed animal to her lips. Softer than any cloth she’s felt before, the dog’s black fur tickles. She rubs it against her cheek, enjoying the luxury. Though she doesn’t need a toy, it might be nice to keep anyway. 

Beside her Hughes beams. “Well, since you asked, it was sort of a last minute gift on my part since I didn’t know if you’d prefer food or maybe a book. Right now we’ve gotten more of those than we know what to do with since Gracia is expecting!”

Riza blinks owlishly in the wake of his excitement. “Expecting what?”

“A baby girl!” He proudly informs. “Her nursery is already filled with toys, she won’t miss one. To be honest, it’s all my doing. She’s not even born yet but I want to dote on her. After fighting in the war, life feels more precious. I want to be there for her. She deserves all the love in the world.”

There’s that familiar, haunting word again. _Love._ Objectively she knows what it means, a strong positive affection. What she can’t understand is why. 

Why does Hughes love a child he’s never met before? 

Why is someone worthy of being loved?

Though she doesn’t understand, Riza admires the passion in his eyes as he talks about his family. The mention of his wife and unborn daughter lightens up his entire face until she hardly recognises the man with war weary eyes she met months ago. And yet, it suits Hughes. 

“The Major said you would be a good father one day.”

Hughes looks genuinely surprised. “He did?”

Riza nods and pretends not to notice as he wipes a stray tear away. She stares at the toy dog in her metal hands as they lapse into silence. 

***

In Dublith they board a train headed north. The rail lines here are still intact, Hughes explains, undamaged by the war. The hard bench seat bites into her thighs while the air inside the passenger cars stagnates until the engine _chugs_ to life. Lulled by the rhythm of the tracks, Riza relaxes.

Riding on a train, this is familiar. She and the Major traveled from East City to South City by railway with their company. Memories of sitting beside Major Mustang are more pleasant to remember than sitting beside him on the stronghold’s staircase during the final battle. 

Everytime she looks beside herself she expects him to be there, nose in a book or napping while he has the chance. But when she looks, he is not there. The seat is always empty. 

Town after town flies past the window. Gradually they leave the rocky, barren cliffs of Rush Valley behind until the gentle green rolling hills outside of the capital come into view. 

“Have you been to Central before?” 

Hughes wipes his brow with a handkerchief before tucking it back into a pocket. He too looks just as comfortable with this mode of transportation, one ankle crossed over the knee of his other leg.

“No.” Riza’s eyes lift from her lap where the stuffed dog rests between her metal hands. Major Mustang grew up in Central, she knows, not that he spoke often about his childhood. As the capital of Amestris, Central City holds the largest military base which commands all regional bases. 

Other than that the city is a mystery to her. When she thinks of its streets and shops she can only imagine the familiar lamp lit cobblestones of East City. 

“The Major and I stayed in the east before the war, then we went south to fight.”

“Well, it’s not impressive visually, as say, North or South City.” Hughes shrugs from his seat across from her on the train as it pulls into Central Station. “Just another city, but it’s got plenty going on. Lots of job opportunities for you when you’re ready to work. You won’t have trouble making a life for yourself here.”

As they depart, Riza schools her face into a neutral expression to avoid getting lost in the vastness of Central’s Grand Station. Dozens of trains and twice as many tracks stretch across a platform easily twice the size of East City’s. People walk quickly, nearly shoulder to shoulder, tickets and baggage in hand. 

The ability to focus is engraved in her bones. In active duty, the chaos of sound and movement surrounded her: gunfire, shouting, buildings toppling. Navigating a train station is easy in comparison. She follows Hughes, deftly weaving around strangers. 

Downtown the streets are equally busy, but more spacious. Brick walls meet cobblestone streets, both damp and discolored by a recent rain. In the distance Riza’s sharp eyes catch sight of Central Command towering over all else at the city’s center. Perhaps the Major is inside. Given the capital’s population of eight million, it is likely. 

They catch a full trolley that takes them across the city. Here, the streets are less crowded. Children play games on the sidewalk. Women wave to each other in passing while tucking a basket of groceries beneath one arm. More flower boxes sit in the windows, signaling civilian homes. 

“Where are we headed?” Riza asks now that she has the space to do so. They walk side by side on the spacious sidewalk only because Hughes reminded her she no longer needs to follow military guidelines two steps behind him. 

Central is not a strange place, but the rules here make the city feel foriegn. 

“Ah, yes. Apologies. To my house of course! Gracia is making dinner, especially for you tonight. Since we didn’t know what you would like, she’s making quiche. Hope that’s alright. She’s the best cook —“

“Where will I stay?” She interrupts, asking the pressing question on her mind. “If I am discharged the barracks will not house me.”

Hughes pauses speaking to think and unconsciously rubs the back of his neck in embarrassment.

“Well,” he begins, leading Riza past door after door of quaint residential homes, “I was hoping to break the news to you over a homemade meal. Unfortunately our guest room is now a nursery. A very full one at that, so you won’t be able to stay with us like we had hoped. Don’t worry, I’ve found a place for you. There’s a spare room in the office you are welcome to have.”

“Office?” Riza questions. For all the topics Hughes has talked about, she has not heard of this place yet. 

“Not the offices, specifically, there’s a room in the attic at my business. I’m the owner and president of a mail delivery service. We’re still getting established, but you are more than welcome to have that space until you find a place of your own.”

Hughes stops in front of one cherry red door, opens it, and waves Riza inside without warning. Warm light radiates from the lamps and bounces off the sitting chairs and bookshelves filled with photographs. 

It strikes Riza suddenly that this is a home. Decorations line the walls, art and framed photos of smiling faces too. The floral sofa prioritizes comfort over utility. She feels uneasy here; a soldier like her doesn’t belong in this domestic scene. She stops inside the foyer not daring to enter further. Hughes shuts the door behind him and calls into the house. 

“Gracia! We’re here, Love.” He walks further into the living room to greet his wife as Riza hears a second, lighter voice. 

“Maes!” 

A woman who could only be his wife appears from the kitchen wearing a stained green apron over her dress. Like Riza her hair is short, shorter than Riza’s hair that has grown to her shoulders since the end of the war. 

“I hope you both had an easy journey.” Gracia wipes her hands on the apron and quickly embraces Hughes in a long hug. He takes care to hold her gently, careful to avoid squeezing her abnormally large abdomen. Riza observes behind them, wondering what type of disease made her swell disproportionately. 

When they seperate Hughes turns his attention back to Riza for a formal introduction. 

“Gracia, this is Miss Riza Hawkeye. She worked with Roy during the war. She’s been discharged and he asked me to help her get back on her feet while she recovers.” 

Riza salutes. 

“Oh,” Gracia heitates, looking toward her husband in confusion. 

Hughes clears his throat. “Ah, that’s not necessary, Riza,” he explains gently. “Gracia is a civilian, you can bow instead.”

Dropping the salute, Riza bows. Stiffly. The action feels unfamiliar especially in the new restrictive clothing. But Hughes is right; she’s no longer a soldier –– the war is over. Calling herself a civilian doesn’t feel right either. She doesn’t know where she fits into this arrangement yet.

Hughes, the gracious host, continues his introduction. “Riza, this is the light of my life, my better half, my glowing wife Gracia.” 

Due to her disproportionate round middle, Gracia’s bow is short, but no less polite. The woman smiles even more easily than the hospital nurses. Maybe all civilians smile more.

Playfully, she slaps her husband on the arm. “Maes is being ridiculous. We’re so thrilled to have you with us, Riza,” Gracia says. “A friend of Roy’s is a friend of ours. Please make yourself at home.” The warmth in her voice is lost on Riza who would much rather commands be barked in her direction. 

Hughes pecks his wife on the cheek once more. “Is dinner ready? We haven’t eaten since getting on the train and we’re starving.” 

Incorrect. The knowledge of something so blatantly wrong sits uneasily in Riza’s stomach. She would never allow Major Mustang or another officer to be given false information. “I am not starving,” Riza corrects. “I have eaten during my recovery in the hospital.”

“Of course,” Gracia agrees smoothly, letting go of Hughes to take Riza by her bandaged arm. The woman guides her through the kitchen into the dining room. “You’ll quickly learn Maes exaggerates.”

“I would never,” he defends, picking up a platter in the kitchen. He sets it down on the table as Gracia gestures for Riza to sit across from her. 

“We’re so happy to have you with us tonight. Between the military and the hospital you probably haven’t had a home cooked meal in a long time.” 

She doesn’t know how long it's been. Once she cooked for herself, before her father died. Though after given basic instructions in the military she wouldn’t call the food she provided herself or her father ‘cooking.’

I hope you like quiche.” Gracia continues, “It’s on one Maes’ favorite recipes.”

“I have no fondness for it, but Major Mustang enjoys it very much,” Riza remembers.

“Yes, he certainly did.” Gracia pats Hughes’ hand gently. Riza misconstrues it for affection. 

Riza understands why the men liked it as soon as she took a bite. It was flavorful, more so than all of the military rations and dull hospital food she ate in the past two years. Her eyes water at the taste of eggs and warm cheese as it hits her tongue. For the first time eating is more than a chore, a way to preserve energy. It’s enjoyable. 

Riza takes another bite, moving her mechanical arm slowly not to spill. 

Both Hughes and Gracia continue to talk as they eat. Hughes fills his wife in about details of their trip to Central, the reconstruction in the south, the weather, and crowded train station. All light, pleasant topics. 

It puzzles Riza as she listens. None of the information is particularly noteworthy. It doesn’t sound like Hughes tells his wife anything profoundly new. Yet Gracia listens eagerly, responds with a little laugh, and asks questions to prompt Hughes to speak more –– not that he needs more encouragement. What is the purpose of their conversation?

Riza’s thoughts drift back to Major Mustang. She listened when he spoke, but the topics were tactical, specific to the war. He never talked to … well, talk.

If he had, she would probably listen anyway. She misses his deep, warm voice. 

“Riza?”

She looks up from her plate to the waiting eyes of Gracia Hughes.

“Did you enjoy your recovery in South City? It must be gorgeous this time of year with the sun and all of the flowers in bloom.”

“My recovery was adequate.” Riza says honestly. “I didn’t see either from the hospital.” 

As soon as the words leave her mouth she knows it’s the wrong thing to say. Hughes’ smile falters. Why the truth is wrong, she doesn’t know. The hospital kept her away from direct sunlight and the flora. Riza’s mind races. Did they not want to hear the truth?

“I hope you get the chance to see them one day.” Gracia says. “I’ve been told the gardens of South City are the most beautiful gardens in Amestris.”

Riza doesn't know how to respond. So she says nothing.

Hughes and his wife carry the conversation the rest of the meal, occasionally asking Riza’s opinion about something trivial. To the disappointment of her hosts her responses are short and concise. Riza knows they want her to say more, but she doesn’t know how to give them the answers they want. 

When the quiche is finished, Gracia tries to stand but Hughes urges her to sit and whisks away the empty dishes. He returns with a pie for dessert before serving tea in delicate ceramic cups. 

“I made the apple pie fresh this morning.” Gracia says, cutting a slice and passing it to the younger woman. She pours a steaming cup of black tea. Riza watches curls of steam lazily roll upwards into the air. 

She misses the strong coffee shared on the front lines. The Major complained about the bitter taste after the first sip of a fresh cup, but continued to drink it anyway. 

Hughes and his wife eat with the same merriment as earlier and the conversation lasts long after empty plates have been pushed aside. 

The apple pie was as delicious as the quiche before it. A small part of Riza is sad to see it disappear from her plate. Maybe one day she will be fortunate enough to eat it again instead of relying on nutritionally dense ration packs.

The military never served anything so sweet. 

“Go on, drink up, Riza.” Gracia urges, pouring more tea into her cup as the couple relaxes after the meal. Her hands rest on her bloated middle with ease and continues speaking. “I admit I haven’t been feeling well lately. It’s nice to have my energy back and get to spoil someone with a well cooked meal.” 

Drinking is not an order, not officially due to Gracia’s civilian status. Riza’s too, she remembers uncomfortably. But she sees no harm in following the command. The desire to obey is ingrained deep into her soul. It is comfortable. Familiar.

Bulky metal fingers lift the steaming teacup, under estimating the weight of the object and the steaming liquid sloshes over the rim onto her hand.

The tea soaks through the bandages immediately. Faded brown stains spread across the linen material. 

Gracia gasps and stands quickly, unable to help with the table between them. 

Riza knows the tea is hot. Yet, she feels nothing as she sets the teacup down on the saucer in front of her gently. No burn from the heat. No dampness or the fabric wrapped around her hand. She doesn’t even feel the knuckles of her fingers as they click with the movement. 

She cannot feel anything touching the iron limb. Riza stares at the source of disconnect between her mind and body.

Hughes reaches her first. “Riza,” he asks, examining her hand delicately, “are you alright? Are you hurt?”

She barely registers the words. Hughes begins to unwrap the wet, discolored bandage from her fingers by the time she responds. 

“No. I can’t feel anything.” She flexes each shiny finger one by one proving the truth to both them and herself. 

Gracia comes to her side and hovers nearby, holding her hand over her mouth in surprise as the metal automail beneath is uncovered. 

“No harm done.” Hughes reassures both women. “Only an accident.” 

“I’m so sorry, Riza.” Gracia apologizes. “I didn’t mean to pressure you. The bandages are ruined, let me get something else for you…” She hurries away. Moments later she returns with a pair of brown gloves. “Please, take these,” she offers them to Riza. 

Riza examines the plain brown leather before sliding one on. The stitching is simple, but neat. It must be handmade. Though short, the glove covers her wrist and folds over the edge of the long sleeves of her blouse. It fits well. 

“Try the other.” Gracia suggests.

Riza does, unwinding the bandage wrapped around her second hand. She stretches her fingers to test the leather’s flexibility. The gloves do not impede her movement. She has no objection to wearing them. 

“Keep them.” Gracia urges, smiling. “They don’t fit my swollen fingers nowadays. At least you can get daily use out of them.”

“I will.” Riza nods, knowing she should express more gratitude. That’s what people do when given things. She knows objectively ‘thank you’ is the correct phrase. But the words sit heavily on her tongue unwilling to come out after years of conditioning against pleasantries. Soldiers do not say thank you. “They cover my automail well,” Riza finishes instead.

She and Hughes leave soon after many goodbyes from Gracia. They walk through the lamp lit streets of Central among the evening crowd of shopkeepers locking up and restaurants filling their tables with late diners.

The business isn’t far, Hughes reassures. 

“It’s a letter writing company.” He explains. The one thing that got me through the war was Gracia’s letters. Reading them each week gave me something to live for. I started the GH Postal Company so everyone else can enjoy receiving letters as much as I did.”

“GH?” Riza asks, unfamiliar with the acronym. Her boots click with each step on the cobblestones. She’s unable to move stealthily, not that she needs to anymore.

“Yes. Named after my beloved, of course. Gracia Hughes! She’s embarrassed by the name, but I think it’s perfect! We’re still small, but growing fast. We deliver letters and we write them too. Plenty of people in the city and villages never learned how to read or write so they come to us when they want to send a letter. It’s not too shabby a business, if I say so myself.”

“And I’ll stay there,” Riza confirms. She looks between the suitcase and stuffed dog in her newly gloved hands. 

“There’s a spare room in the attic. It’s bare except for the bed, but I think it will give you some privacy. You are free to come and go as you please. Of course, you don’t have to stay there if you find somewhere better … Riza?” Hughes pauses uncharacteristically. 

“Yes?” 

Hughes takes a deep breath, clearly thinking about what he wants to say next as he slows to walk beside her. “What was the last order Roy gave you?”

Riza’s gaze snaps upward, eyes wide in surprise. Hughes was asking about the Major. Her Major. Her heart races and aches all at once just thinking of him.

“He told me to live and be free.” She’s repeated the phrase to herself more times than she can count. Everyday during her recovery she sat in the hospital listening to the words in her mind. Both his voice and her own repeating them until they turned to gibberish, trying to decipher their meaning. 

Why had it been the last order he gave? 

Why … Why not something more useful? He didn’t say, ‘win the war, report back to base, bring reinforcements, get a gun and shoot the bastards.’

No. 

“ _Riza, listen.” Major Mustang gasped with a shallow, wet breath. “You have to …” He winced, clutching a hand over the bullet wound over his stomach, failing to staunch the blood. “ … live and be free.”_

Hughes nods quietly. A few moments of silence pass while they turn a corner. Finally, he stops. Riza does too, waiting. 

“You’ve been in the army since you were a child, weren’t you? You didn’t get to a lot of other experiences before going to war. There’s,” Hughes struggles, pinching the bridge of his nose before letting it go. “There’s a lot of things you’re going to learn in the future, although it might feel like it’s easier to keep living as if you never learned them at all. I want you to be ready.”

Riza interrupts. “I don’t understand.” 

“You don’t realize it yet, but it’s like –– it’s like your body is on fire. And it’s burning up because of the things you did. In the war.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not burning.”

Riza saw burning during the war. Plenty of it. The Major’s flames rose like a wall through various battlefields, cutting down enemies swift and efficiently. The orange glow often danced in the reflection of his eyes. Riza thought fondly of the warmth and safety brought by his flames. 

“Hughes' lips crossed into a sad, thin line. “Yes you are. I am too, Riza.”

“I’m not burning. Neither are you.”Riza insisted angrily. “I don’t get it.”

“No, you are burning. Everyone who came back alive is burning, even if you can’t feel it yet. Roy left you with me and the best I can do is make sure that you don’t let the fire consume you. Don’t worry about it right now. Someday you’ll understand. Then you will realize that you have many burns.”

Hughes took a large skeleton key out of his pocket and turned to the door, unlocking it. 

What on earth was Hughes talking about? Major Mustang had never burned her. He was far too careful, too accurate. She shook the thought from her head and stepped inside. 

Riza would know if her body was on fire. 

**Author's Note:**

> Curious to hear any ideas of who Riza should write letters for and what they want to say. I'd love to write more and see Riza's growth. She also needs to meet Winry and upgrade that automail!
> 
> I'm on Tumblr now under the name royaidaydreams (How did that happen?) Swing by and say hi.


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